


Play It Again, Sam

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Coulson is surprised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play It Again, Sam

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a video of Jeremy Renner playing the piano and singing, and seeing the grand piano in _Ironman_

**Play it Again, Sam**

Sometimes, when Stark got a great idea things went galley-west faster than Nick Fury could say SHIELD. Most of those times involved a trip to Malibu and grave personal danger because there always seemed to be _somebody_ out there that was in their threat matrix. Fury didn't like Stark being in anybody's bulls-eye, so he called in back-up.

He looked at Phil Coulson. "You need to go to Malibu," he said. "Stark's jet is fueled up and ready. A chopper will be here at 1500 hours to take you and Barton to the airport."

Phil tried not to sigh. "Sir, isn't that usually Natasha's --"

"Have you seen Natasha?"

"Not since Barton and I got back from Kabul," he said. "Which was only two days ago."

"Natasha is in Moscow. Is Malibu a problem?"

"Only when you have severely bruised ribs, a concussion and haven't slept in 48 hours."

"You look fine."

"Sir, I was speaking of Barton."

"He'll be fine. Pack him in cotton wool. Think of this trip as some R&R."

"Is that all, sir?"

"There should be more?" 

"No, sir." Fury picked up his phone and that was the end of the conversations. Phil dragged his tired body out of the office and down to the basement firing range.

Barton was shooting a quiver of arrows. He looked ragged and it had to hurt like hell, but it was his routine, and a familiar one to Coulson. He waited until the last arrow flew into the heart of the tattered target before he spoke.

"We're going to Malibu."

Clint turned slowly and sank down to the floor. "You go. I'm beat." He blinked up at Phil.

"Both of us." 

"When?"

"Three hours. Enough time to shower and pack."

"You don't look very well," Clint observed. 

"Better than you do." Phil held out his hand.

Barton clung to it as he painfully heaved himself upright. "And I love you, too, _Phil_." 

Coulson just shook his head. Not bloody likely.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
The view from Stark's Malibu mansion looked like it could be from the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. Above him, the night sky was filled with stars and below the house the ocean was inky black except for the wash of the pacific waves on the rocks. It was stunning and Clint stood looking out, wondering what it was like to live like this every day. He couldn't imagine ... not with a life that was light years away from Stark's. 

The house was quiet. Stark was off somewhere in the lower levels playing with his toys. Phil had taken a phone call from Fury and was still closeted in Stark's office. Clint's fingers itched for something that wasn't his bow for a change. He looked around the vast room, feeling like he was about to take something that wasn't his. He drifted over to the Steinway concert grand. His fingers caressed the perfect finish. He tentatively touched a key. The lone note hung in the air like a drift of perfume. He looked around as if somebody would stop him. Nobody came, nobody heard. He was as alone as he ever was. 

He sat on the bench and began to play idle notes and chords, then as his hands learned the touch of the keys and the span of the chords the notes glided into melody. He found something in the music that he found on the range; something that could take him away from his past, from what he had done, from what he was. He'd never be Vladimir Horowitz; perfection and emotion. His perfection was the flight of the arrow to the heart of a target. He could accept that. 

His chords became a song. His voice, rusty from disuse, was more of a husky whisper than a true baritone, but it smoothed out a bit as he went on. _You must remember this, A kiss is just a kiss_ ... 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Phil came out of the office, papers in hand, his mind working on the mission that had been set up by Fury when they returned from Malibu. Nothing pressing, no emergency, just a nagging itch that had to be scratched. He paused, suddenly aware of music. Piano, played softly with the mute pedal down, and somebody singing. He couldn't place the voice, but he knew the song. Interesting. Stark was more of a heavy-metal guy than a traditionalist. 

He went down to the living room and paused, startled and feeling as if he had stepped into an alternate universe. Clint was seated at the piano singing in an amazing, raspy baritone that was nearly as much a surprise as his keyboard skills. Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved white henley, and seated in the spotlight that played across the gleaming finish of the piano, he looked like a rock star; romantic and wild, but tamed by the song he was singing. 

_As time goes by ..._

Phil didn't know if he should go forward or back away. He didn't want to move, but he had to do something, not just stand frozen to the spot. He didn't back away. He stepped into the light and leaned against the piano. Barton, to his credit, didn't falter. He finished the song, the last note softly fading away. Clint's head was tilted as if he was listening to the last whisper of sound; the same way Phil had seen him watch the flight of an arrow to the target. His eyes were closed, his thick, straight lashes shadowing his cheeks, which were faintly flushed. He looked sideways at Phil. "Did I disturb you?"

"No." Actually, he had, considerably, but not with his music. "I didn't know you ..." His gesture encompassed the piano and Clint.

"Surprise. Yeah, one of those things I picked up at the circus. We had to do something in the down times. When I wanted to get out, I fantasized about being a rock star. Don't laugh," he warned, his eyes betraying more than self-deprecation. 

"I wasn't -- I wouldn't. It's more than I can do." He leaned down and hit a key. "That's the limit of my musical talent."

Clint's fingers brushed his as he stroked a glittering arpeggio starting with the key Phil had struck. "It starts with one note, then you just add more until it sounds right."

"So you say," Phil smiled. He was still leaning on the piano. Clint smelled like salt air, clean skin, Stark's ridiculously expensive soap. He was more used to Barton smelling like gun oil, sweat, leather. He wore it all well. 

"What?" he asked, humor glinting in his eyes. 

"You are a study in contradictions, Barton. Just when I think I've figured you out, you throw another curve."

"You've been trying to figure me out?" 

"It's my job."

One brow lifted, one corner of Barton's mouth twitched. "Really?"

"I would have thought Pink Floyd was more your style, not Dooley Wilson."

"Casablanca. One of the best movies ever. Maybe _the_ best. You can't beat Bogie. Man, I wanted to be him."

Phil was momentarily distracted by a vision of Barton in a trench coat and fedora. "That would make me Claude Rains?"

Clint laughed, got up from the bench and threw an arm over Phil's shoulders. "Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," he said, doing a dead-on imitation of Bogart. 

Phil couldn't help leaning into Barton; weakness or need or just plain sexual attraction overriding his usual reserve. Barton stiffened, a slight startled flinch and then pulled Phil a millimeter closer, relaxed and warm, the air plangent with possibilities.

**The End**


End file.
